Old Lover's Ghost (10 page)

“Not more than one noble beau, I should think,” Merton said. “Why would she bother with grooms and footmen if she had caught Papa’s eye?”

“It is possible she was already with child when she caught his lordship’s eye,” Bagot pointed out. “Young Meg was not one to miss out on a chance to better herself. She was bold as brass. She developed an overweening manner of ordering the kitchen maids about during her short reign as his lordship’s favorite.”

Merton shook his head sadly. “I hope she enjoyed her brief reign as she paid for it with her life. Thank you, Bagot. That will be all.”

Bagot seemed relieved to be able to stand again and return to his normal duties. “Shall I pour a glass of wine, milord?”

“Thank you, if you will be so kind.”

Bagot poured the wine while Charity waited on nettles for him to leave so that she might discuss this new revelation with Merton.

Just as Bagot turned to leave, Merton said, “What was the family name of this Meg, the dairymaid, Bagot? I shall put a bouquet on her grave.”

Bagot gave a startled look. “Monteith. She was Miss Monteith’s sister. And if you want my opinion, the pair of them should have been turned off.” With this speech he bowed and left.

“So that is it!” Charity said in a squeaking voice. “Miss Monteith is exacting revenge for her sister’s death.”

“I shall have a word with Mama. Now that I know the whole story, I may be able to dissuade her from flagellating herself with guilt. I shall tell her Meg Monteith was in the dower house all along, with proper medical care. She is not responsible for the girl’s death. She will be furious with Papa, but anger is better than guilt.”

Lewis joined Charity while she was awaiting Merton’s return. Charity sensed an air of excitement about him, but when she inquired what he had been up to, he just yawned into his hand.

“Just dipping into a little poetry. What is new here?”

She outlined the latest discovery.

“By the living jingo, I knew that old malkin of a Monteith was up to no good. I hope John sends her packing. Would you care for a hand of cards while we wait for John to return?”

Merton did not return for thirty minutes, and when he came back, he was scowling.

“Mama refuses to be rid of Miss Monteith,” he said. “When I threatened to turn her off myself, Mama said she would remove to the dower house, with Monteith to bear her company.”

“But did she deny Bagot’s story?” Charity asked eagerly.

“On the contrary, she expanded on it. She was jealous as a green cow of Meg, as she had failed to produce an heir herself. It seems Meg was also uncommonly pretty and bold. Mama says the chit taunted her. Not verbally, but she was bold as brass. Delayed in doing what she was told and so on. To compound the business, it was on the evening of the day Mama got Meg turfed out that the child was born—and we know the consequences.

“It seems Bagot is mistaken about the dower house. Mama says the house was occupied at the time. Papa’s cousin Algernon—yes, that Algernon— and his wife had been given the use of it for a few months. There was some secrecy in it, which is why the servants did not know. It involved his hiding out after a duel. You may imagine the cause of it. It seems he killed his man and had to rusticate to escape the law. Perhaps his wife was enceinte and gave birth while there. In any case, Mama is quite certain Meg was not sent there but turned out with nowhere to go. She has the notion Meg was delivered of her child in an open field without a midwife, which accounts for the mother and child dying. You may be sure Miss Monteith is keeping her guilt at the boil.”

“It don’t sound like Mama to be so harsh,” Lewis said.

“She would be if Meg was taunting her,” Charity said. “No lady would stand for that in her own house.”

“It would not surprise me much if Meg is back, wreaking her own revenge,” Lewis said.

Merton gave him a scalding stare. “It is news to me if ghosts can boil kettles and poke holes in walls.”

“Why, John, you amaze me!” Lewis said, staring innocently. “At dinnertime you was all for believing in ghosts. You had best make up your mind. Ah, here is Mr. Wainwright now. I daresay you will be a believer again.”

Once Wainwright joined them, the conversation turned to Knagg and other ghostly subjects, until tea was served, and then it was time to retire.

Chapter Nine

Two hauntings occurred at Keefer Hall that night. One was not discovered until the next morning; the other caused such a fracas that it kept the occupants of the west wing awake for hours.

Lord Merton, worried about his mama’s intransigence in keeping Miss Monteith for her companion, had a deal of trouble getting to sleep at all. He felt it unhealthy for his mama to have this reminder of past wrongdoing constantly before her eyes. He disliked to see five thousand pounds of Lewis’s inheritance being whistled down the wind as well, yet his mama (usually so docile) had made it crystal clear that she would brook no interference with her plans.

He had no hope now that Wainwright might rid them of this new “ghost.” A fellow with a monomania was no new thing to Merton. He had a cousin who wanted to be an Italian; wanted to live in Italy, but as the war made that precarious, he had changed his name from Joseph Dechastelaine to Giuseppi Mertoni, built himself an Italian villa on the banks of the Thames, staffed it with Italian servants, ate Italian food, built himself a gondola, and read only Italian. He had not exchanged a word with his non-Italian-speaking family for ten years. And good riddance to him!

Foolish as this was, it was at least based in reality. Wainwright’s monomania was based on air. Yet it was odd that the yellow jerkin and the round helmet had been thrown to the ground. Were there such things as ghosts, or those noise ghosts Wainwright had spoken of? Apparently many otherwise sane folks thought so. The Montagus, for instance. As he tossed and turned, he decided to leave such worries for morning and lull himself to sleep with thoughts of Miss Wainwright.

Her beauty was not of the aggressive sort that leaped out and vanquished a man at first glance. But as he spent more time in her company, he found her softer charms to be insidious. She was not one to flirt or tease or flatter an eligible parti. In fact, she had risked his wrath to venture that suggestion that either he or Lewis was an adulterine son. She had quite insisted on it. Really, that was doing it a bit brown! She was not at all the sort of lady a gentleman in his position should consider marrying. She had no particular accomplishments; she boasted no noble connections, and as her papa was a younger son, her dowry would be insignificant.

Yet she was a lively lady. When she smiled, her eyes sparkled. And when she walked, she moved with the grace of a cat. He quite looked forward to riding with her tomorrow. Her riding habit had arrived and been delivered to her room. He would take her through the spinney to the brook, to show her where he used to catch tadpoles. The bluebells should be out by now. It was a pretty spot for ... His eyelids fluttered shut on this happy thought.

It was an hour later that he was aroused from a deep sleep by a crooning chant. His first thought when he opened his eyes was that it was odd the moon was shining in his room. His valet always closed the curtains. And what was that sound ...

He sat up and stared all around. There, caught in a shaft of moonlight by his door, stood a woman dressed in some light color. She wore a shawl over her head. As he stared, rubbing his eyes, he thought it was Miss Wainwright. What could account for her coming to his room? Surely she was not that sort of girl!

“Miss Wainwright! Is something wrong?” he asked.

The woman moved a step closer. On the bodice of her gown he noticed a dark smear. A graceful hand moved, pressing the stain. A low moan issued from her throat. Then the hand moved again, pointing to the cold grate.

“There! There he smote me the killing blow. There I lay, my life blood oozing from me. Ah, pity, pity me, thou unbeliever.”

Her gown, some wispy arrangement of draperies, moved and then she was gone. For a moment Merton sat, stunned into immobility. Good God! It was the singing nun! He had finally seen her. A cold perspiration beaded his brow. Then a second thought urged him into action.

Ghost bedamned! It was some prank of Wainwright’s, and if that “ghost” was not his daughter, he would be much surprised. This was their petty revenge for his belittling their activities. By God, he would not be made a fool of in his own house. He leaped from his bed and ran after her. He was just in time to see the tail of a skirt disappear around the corner of the staircase. He went racing through the dark corridor after the apparition, his bare feet pounding on the carpet.

That alone might not have been sufficient to awaken the occupants of the west wing, but when he reached the stairs, he saw the woman in the entrance hall below, fleeing toward the front door. He ran precipitately down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He lost his footing halfway down and fell the remainder of the way, bumping and thumping loudly enough to awaken the dead. When he reached the landing, he fell in a heap, cursing his head off. From the open front door he felt a cold blast of air. She had gotten out, but by God she would not get back in.

He pulled himself up and hobbled painfully, hopping on one foot, to lock the door. He grabbed a blackthorn walking stick from the tall Chinese pot that held a collection of such items and limped back into the hallway just as Bagot appeared, bearing a lamp and wearing a blue satin dressing gown of unlikely pavonine splendor. Merton recognized it vaguely as an old one of his papa’s.

“Milord!” Bagot exclaimed, hastening forward, his nightcap tilted rakishly over his left eye.

At the same moment Lewis came darting downstairs, arrayed in a dressing gown of an even more dashing sort. It was a deep wine color, the sash heavily fringed in black. He looked suspiciously wide awake. Lewis was obviously in league with Miss Wainwright in this ill-conceived jape. Merton, turning the air blue with his profanities, limped toward his younger brother.

Abovestairs, Charity had heard the racket and thought her papa must be executing some late-night experiment. She rose, lit her lamp, slipped on a modest dressing gown of blue merino, and tiptoed into the hallway. Her papa’s door was closed. When she received no answer to her tap, she opened the door. Mr. Wainwright was sleeping peacefully. Should she awaken him? If Knagg was acting up, he would like to know about it. She jiggled his shoulder.

“Papa, wake up. There is some commotion downstairs.”

Mr. Wainwright sat up. “What, what? The spirits are acting up. Excellent! I shall be down presently.”

Charity returned to the hallway. From the top of the staircase she caught a wan ray of light from below and heard raised voices. She was not slow to recognize the accents of Lord Merton and to realize that he was in a towering rage. What could have happened? She darted downstairs to see Merton wearing nothing but a white linen nightshirt. It came to his knees, revealing the bottom half of a pair of shapely legs.

She hesitated, wondering if she should go below when Lord Merton was so casually outfitted. In the end curiosity got the better of her and she continued down to the landing.

To her astonishment, Merton pointed a finger at her and roared, “So you have managed to sneak back in despite my locking you out. By God, I cannot toss a lady out into the middle of the night as you deserve, but you shall leave here at first light, Miss Wainwright, and your father with you. I might have broken my neck!”

He moved his neck rather like a rooster, stretching it this way and that, to test that it was not broken. He uttered a yelp and put his palm to it, to ease the pain.

Charity felt the full odium of this unjustified attack. She stared haughtily and said, “You need not wait until morning, milord. I shall leave at once, and my father with me. If you will be so kind as to call our carriage, Bagot.” She turned and began to stride upstairs with her head held high.

“Shall I call the doctor for you as well, milord?” Bagot asked uncertainly.

Merton limped to the bottom of the staircase and shouted at Charity, “Get back down here at once.”

Lewis twitched at his brother’s elbow. “I say, John, that is a bit rough on Miss Wainwright.”

Miss Wainwright stopped, while her anger congealed to icy fury. She turned and slowly descended the staircase. “I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about. I have not been out of the house, so I could hardly have sneaked back in. I heard your uncouth bellows and came to see if you required assistance. And I am not accustomed to being ordered about like a servant.”

“Are you saying you were not in my bedroom a moment ago?”

Her jaw fell. “Milord! You go too far! Upon my word!”

Lewis scowled. “I say, John! That is doing it a bit brown.”

Merton began to realize that Miss Wainwright had not had time to find some means back into the house, get upstairs to her room, change her gown, and reappear so swiftly. In other words, he had made a flaming jackass of himself.

“Some woman was in my room,” he said, still angry.

“You may be very sure it was not I!” she said.

Bagot cleared his throat discreetly. “Perhaps if your lordship would tell us exactly what happened? You will be more comfortable in the saloon,” he continued, taking Merton’s elbow to guide him thither. “A glass of wine would not go amiss. I shall give you a coat to put on, until I have time to run upstairs and get your dressing gown.”

In this calming manner he ushered Merton into the saloon, with a clearly discomfitted Lewis and an angry Miss Wainwright following behind. Bagot saw Merton to a sofa, lit a few lamps, and poured wine for the party. He then disappeared, to reappear a moment later carrying a long drab driving coat, which he arranged around Merton’s shoulders, tucking the tail of it around his naked legs.

“Will you be requiring a doctor, your lordship?”

Merton did not wish to belittle the nature of his wounds. Being an invalid seemed his best hope of diminishing Miss Wainwright’s wrath. On the other hand, he had no wish to have a sawbones poking about him.